


As The Years Go By

by hcsvntdracones



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bill Cipher Possessing Ford Pines, Ford Pines Has Issues, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Ford Pines and Mabel Pines Bonding, Ford Pines is a Good Brother, Gen, Hanukkah, Jewish Pines Family, Minor Jesus "Soos" Alzamirano Ramirez/Melody, Minor Stan Pines/Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Stan O' War II, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Stan Pines is a Good Brother, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28357512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hcsvntdracones/pseuds/hcsvntdracones
Summary: Eight Chanukahs Ford and Stan spent (mostly) apart, and one they spent together.
Relationships: Dipper Pines & Ford Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Jesus "Soos" Alzamirano Ramirez & Stan Pines
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	As The Years Go By

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I found on my external hard drive, about 80% written prior to the Gravity Falls finale, and abandoned afterwards. I decided I wanted to finish it and post it this year for the holidays, though of course Chanukah is long over at this point.
> 
> Rick Sanchez does appear in one section.
> 
> Thank you to Maddie Mariusperkins for reading this over and validating me, haha.

**Night One: TEN**

Lee is ten, and money is scarce. It probably is for his parents, too, but for the moment he’s mostly concerned with his own pockets. He’d spent his whole fall raking leaves and carrying groceries, doing whatever chores he could convince the neighbors to pay him for, in the hopes of saving up enough to order something cool for Ford from the back of one of their comic books. A microscope, maybe, or a telescope! Or sea monkeys, or x-ray specs! But in the end, he hadn’t managed to scrounge up enough, and there hadn’t been enough time for the four to six weeks the ads said it would take to ship to him, so he’d had to figure something else out. 

Chanukah isn’t a gift holiday. Pop says. Ma always shushes him when he gets grumpy about it, though, grumbling about spoiled kids these days. She reminds him that when she was a little girl she’d gotten Shirley Temple paper dolls for Chanukah, so beautiful that all her little friends had come over to see, and they’d _all_ been jealous, even the ones who got Christmas presents. And if Ma says presents are allowed, then Lee thinks they must be. 

Besides, right or wrong, he wants to make Ford smile. Fifth grade has been hard for the both of them and besides that, Ford is Lee’s favorite person in the world. So, on the afternoon before the first night of Chanukah, Lee bikes over to the five-and-dime in town to get as much candy as his meagre savings can buy. He gets all of Ford’s favorites (and, as an afterthought, plenty of Shermy’s favorites, too, and a few of his own), and sneaks them away into his little bike basket, hoping to make it home before anyone is there to peek. 

It’s too cold for bike riding— that sort of seaside chill that creeps into your lungs, damp and shivery and blustery: always painfully cold, but refusing to snow. The wind cuts right through Lee’s coat and scarf, and by the time he gets home his knuckles are raw and red, and his cheeks are stinging from the wind. It’s lucky Ma is on the phone with a client, or he’d get an earful for going out without a hat. 

Ford will be home from the library soon, and Shermy and dad from work, and then Ma will get off the phone, and they’ll finally light the menorah and eat. 

Lighting the candles is Ford and Lee’s job, every year. They take it in turns, but there’s always plenty of underhanded finagling and trickery to try and steal the even numbers and with them night number eight, when all nine candles will be gleaming bright. The best night. Their favorite night. Lee can hardly wait. 

This year, Lee thinks maybe he’ll fake-graciously offer to let Ford have the first turn, so that Ford’ll be stuck with odds. Ford will see right through him, but maybe it’ll work anyway, since Ma always likes it when they share nice. 

Shermy, as the oldest, gets to lead the blessings. He’s also allowed to take the Shamash away from Lee and Ford, if he ever feels like lighting the candles himself. Pop says that’s an older brother’s prerogative, but Shermy is nicer than Pop is, so he hardly ever does that. He always says he had nine whole Chanukahs all to himself, so why would he want to take it away from the Stans now? 

Lee wraps his bag of candy up in yesterday’s newspaper, and stashes it in the living room for later. Then, he sits by the window and waits. 

Finally, _finally_ , Ford and Pop and Shermy all get home, and they can light the little menorah that stands in the window, even though it’s been dark since 4 o’clock. 

After dinner, Ford and Lee are each presented with a small parcel… baseball cards! 

Once Ma is sitting on the sofa again, and Pop is reading his newspaper, Lee pulls out his own gift and presents it to Ford. 

Ford takes it and pulls away the crumpled up newspaper, looking bewildered. Candies spill out all over the floor— Lemon Heads, Atomic Fireballs, gumballs, Tootsie Rolls, wax lips, Pixie Stix, Bit O’ Honeys— too many different kinds to name them all. 

“Oh,” Ford says, taken somewhat aback, his voice soft in his surprise. “All my favorites.” 

“There’s some for Shermy, too,” Lee says, beaming with pride. He doesn’t see, not right away, the worry written in the knit of Ford’s eyebrows. 

“Lee, you didn’t have to,” Ford says, his voice still quiet, something like embarrassment flashing across his face. 

“But… I wanted to,” Lee says, feeling slightly tripped up. Ford doesn’t seem excited. If anything, he seems practically ashamed, which makes Lee’s stomach feel sort of sick and churny with worry. He messed up somehow. He always messes up, somehow. Leave it to stupid old Lee to ruin Chanukah by making Ford feel bad. He doesn’t know what to say to fix it; all he can do is stand there in front of his twin, with the mountain of candy between them, his face getting hotter and hotter with guilt. 

“Hey,” Shermy says, coming over to see what’s got them upset. He kneels down and smiles that kind of crooked older brother smile, “What’sa matter?” 

“I…” Lee feels too dumb to even tell Shermy what he’d done. What if Shermy is upset, too? He balls his hands up tight. “I got you and Ford candy. For Chanukah.” 

Shermy frowns thoughtfully at that. He doesn’t say he’s too grown up for Chanukah presents, or that Chanukah isn’t a holiday you give gifts for. He doesn’t tell Lee he wasted his money, and he doesn’t scold Ford for not thinking to get Lee anything. He just puts a hand on either of their shoulders and raises an eyebrow, his smile turning into a smirk. 

“Play you in dreidel for it.” 

_________________________ 

**Night Two: EIGHTEEN**

Ford has a plan. Ford has always been the one with the plans, from schemes to knock the cookie jar down from the top of the fridge, to overarching, all-consuming life goals. For Backupsmore, the plan is to keep his head down, work his butt off, and _just get through_. Making friends is not a part of the plan. Parties. Dating. Clubs. Extracurriculars. Those are all for other people to worry about. Ford is here to do three things: learn everything he can set his eyes on, earn a diploma (or two), and move on to greener academic pastures. 

When Christmas break comes around, he calls his parents and apologetically tells them that he won’t be coming home. Ma makes a fuss, but he has experiments that need daily monitoring, and it isn’t as if they celebrate Christmas, anyway. He’ll be fine. _They’ll_ be fine: they still have Shermy, and his wife and baby. He doesn’t regret his decision. He does his calculus homework, and reads his physics textbook, and goes to sleep at three in the morning, and then gets up at six to check on a few cultures that he’s growing in the lab. 

He doesn’t regret it. Not until a few days before the start of break, when his roommate finishes his finals and leaves, and the room is empty and _lonely_ for the first time since September. 

It’s not that Ford much cares for his roommate— they barely know each other, barely even see each other, with how much time Ford spends in the lab or library, but… Ford’s never slept in a room on his own before, barring those last few months of high school. He misses the gentle snores that usually greet him when he gets back at 2 AM, and the sleepy mumbling as he’s getting dressed in the morning. He misses having someone awkwardly ask if he’s doing anything fun over the weekend, and someone else’s alarm clock going off at odd hours. His roommate hadn’t been Stanley, of course, nothing like that. But it had been… comforting. Sort of. 

Finals are ending, and break is starting for lots of people. The dorm is starting to empty out, and for the first time, Ford is really realizing how entirely alone he’s going to be for the upcoming weeks. No one else’s footprints in the snow on campus. No one leaving the bathroom light on in the dorm. No one studying in the carrel next to his in the library. No one pulling all nighters in the lab. 

He doesn’t like the feeling it gives him, like something small and desperate and greedy is pulling on his shirt tails, like he’s leaving his heart behind. 

He’s already missed Chanukah, he realizes quietly, sitting alone in his dorm room late that night and knowing that no one will care. It was early this year, and he suddenly wants to celebrate, like he hasn’t wanted to since he was 14 and started feeling too grown up for presents. He wants to do something to feel like himself, the self he used to be, when he was a kid and Lee was always by his side and that was a good thing, and Ma made latkes, and Pop watched them light the candles to be sure they wouldn’t burn themselves, and Shermy ruffled their hair, just a little too gentle to be a noogie. 

He steals away into the night, his breath fogging up in the frigid night air. It’s snowing again, for the third time that week, and his glasses are quickly covered in water droplets and steam. 

The science building is locked this late at night. It’s also connected by an overpass to a liberal arts building, though, which almost never is. And anyway, Ford built a tiny mechanism to keep the lock on the back door from latching properly back in September. Just in case. 

He finds what he’s looking for quickly. He knows which classrooms lock by now; which supply closets are available for students to borrow from; and which have anything worth taking. 

He heads back to his dorm just past one in the morning, laden with ring stands, burette clamps, and test tubes. He’d also taken candles and a book of matches, but he has no intention of ever returning those, which puts them in a slightly different category in his mind. 

He grabs a roll of tin foil from the dorm kitchen, too, just in case the candles are too small for their test tube holders, and assembles a little menorah in the dark and silence of his dorm room. 

Chanukah had been a few weeks back, early in December this year, but for the moment Ford doesn’t care. He kneels on the floor in front of his menorah and lights his candles, murmuring the blessing under his breath. 

He sits in silence for about five minutes, watching his candles burn and feeling an emotion he can’t name settling heavily in his chest and behind his eyes. It’s calm, if a little sad, until the fire alarm goes off with a scream. 

Ford jerks out of his trance. The sprinklers have already put the candles out, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about whether or not it would be wrong to do that himself. He grabs his coat, and hurries to the door. 

The dorm halls, which had seemed so abandoned just a few minutes ago, are suddenly full of disgruntled, pajama-clad students, their hands pressed tight over their ears and their hair standing up in funny directions. Some are carrying notes and textbooks, others seem to have barely managed to find their robes. 

Ford files out of the building with his remaining classmates— it’s less than a quarter of the dorm’s full population. Most are grumbling sleepily about the injustice of a fire alarm in the middle of the night, shivering in their pajamas and slippers. 

It’ll probably be a while before they realize it’s Ford’s fault. 

At least the snow has stopped. 

An older student, tall and skinny and wearing small round glasses, is the only other person who is fully dressed. He’s got a stack of textbooks in his arms, a bookbag over his shoulder, and an actual coat on. 

“Do… do you really think it’ll be that long?” Ford asks, before he thinks better of it. 

“Don’t rightly know,” the older boy shrugs. “Can’t afford to lose time if it is, though.” 

“Right.” Ford nods. “It’s… it’s just a drill, though, right?” 

“Don’t think so,” he says, “They’re usually at least in the daylight.” 

Ford can hear sirens in the distance. His stomach twists with anxiety. 

“Here,” says the older student, setting two of his books down on the asphalt and taking a seat on one of their covers, “have a seat with me.” 

“I… couldn’t,” Ford says, folding his arms tight around his middle. The older boy just pats the book next to his, and pulls a thermos out of his bookbag. 

“Come on, now, I insist,” he says, smiling and pulling a spare cup out of his bag. “I’m Fiddleford, by the way.” 

“Ford.” 

“Have some coffee, Ford. You look like you could use some.” 

_________________________ 

**Night Three: TWENTY-THREE**

“Hey,” Rick says, a small box clutched between his clammy hands. It’s late after a long day of driving, and the car is parked, hidden away somewhere even the bright red paint job of the Stanley Mobile shouldn’t attract too much attention.They’ve settled into the back seat by now, lights off, puffs of breath visible in the chill of the night. They’ve seen better days. 

Stan’d been confined to the passenger seat all day, wincing at every pothole and every acceleration. A few of his ribs are definitely broken, and his ankle is at least badly sprained. He’s also got a black eye, and an ugly gash across his cheekbone that Rick’d clumsily stitched up and sanitized with vodka once it’d been safe to stop, before they drove on again. He’ll heal. 

Rick… Rick’d mostly made it out ok. One of his back teeth’d been knocked out, which won’t heal, but at least nobody’ll ever see it, even if it must hurt like hell. There’s a bruise already forming on his jaw, but he can sit up straight. And walk. And drive, unlike Stan. 

For tonight, they’re lying low and licking their wounds, subsisting on the contents of Rick’s flask and the jar of peanut butter that Stan keeps in his duffle bag. They’re both wearing layers and layers of Stan’s sweatshirts and socks, to try and keep the cold out without having to turn on the engine and waste fuel. 

Stan is lying across the backseat of the car with his head resting in Rick’s lap, too tired to object to being handled with kid gloves. They’ve been quiet, Stan drifting in and out of sleep, and both of them ignoring each other in a way that you only really can when you’re directly on top of someone you trust, lost in your own thoughts. 

Rick jabs Stan in the forehead with the corner of the box again, demanding attention, demanding Stan wake up. 

“What is it?” Stan asks, squinting and struggling to sit up. 

“Y-ya gotta open it to find out, dumbass.” 

It’s wrapped in crumpled up newspaper— the financial section, not even the funnies—but it’s still, almost definitely, a gift. Stan takes it with slightly trembling hands. 

“Yeah, but what for?” he asks. 

Rick gets scowly at that. 

“Christmas,” he barks, “Ch-Chanukah. Yule. W-whatever the fuck, just—just fucking take it, Stan.” 

Stan does, ripping the paper until a medium-sized jewelry box is in his hands. He pulls off the lid. It’s been such a long time since anyone’s given him anything, he’s not at all sure what to say. He’s oddly touched. 

“It’s…” 

“Brass knuckles,” Rick clarifies, “Thought—thought ya might need ‘em. Got ‘em weeks ago.” he pauses, tongue plumbing the sore and empty space where his tooth had been, not meeting Stan’s eyes, “…You, uh, you shoulda had ‘em today.” 

For a second Stan is almost choked up. He swallows, hard, to keep whatever weird emotion is bubbling up buried. 

“Thank you—” Stan starts to say, clearing his throat, but Rick cuts him off. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

So Stan doesn’t. 

_________________________ 

**Night Five: TWENTY-FIVE**

There isn’t much you can do for Chanukah in prison. There’s some kind of Christmas shindig coming up, though, something sad and shitty and pitiful. Stan doesn’t plan on attending. He already knows exactly what it’s gonna be: visits from begrudging family members and maybe a pathetic attempt at a secret Santa. The same crappy food as always, and awkward, depressing silences as everyone tries to pretend that this version of Christmas could ever compare to real Christmas, or, worse, that they don’t care. For once, Stan is glad to be excluded. It’ll mean an afternoon of a peace and quiet, if nothing else. 

No candles, but it’s been years since he’s bothered with that, and longer since he could actually afford it. No gifts, but he’s way too old for that by now, anyway. No friends or family, but… well… even if he isn’t used to that by now, he should be. 

He has a hash brown with his powdered eggs and instant coffee at breakfast, and that’s enough. 

_________________________ 

**Night Four: TWENTY-SEVEN**

Time is different with Bill. Immortality makes its human increments seem trivial, and the ever increasing expanses of time Ford spends in the Mindscape make it incalculable, besides. What’s a day? A week? An eon? Ford doesn’t notice that it’s December, much less that it’s Chanukah. 

Fiddleford worries. Ford knows that, when he’s alone in his head. The thing is, Bill doesn’t _care_ , and when he’s there, neither does Ford. What’s one man’s concern to hundreds of thousands of years? To the infinite of space? To the incomprehensible? 

What’s more, the things that Fiddleford worries about are _so small_ : whether or not Ford eats; when and where and how much he sleeps; whether he is or isn’t losing ‘himself’, whatever that means. And who _cares_? This is bigger than Ford, bigger than Fiddleford, bigger than their relationship, bigger than Ford’s health! 

Fiddleford tries. He begs Ford not to let Bill back in, to take care of himself, to _protect_ himself, but Ford refuses to listen. 

Fiddleford tries to make foods Ford likes, to invite him to do things he used to enjoy, to take him places and show him things, to remind him that being human may not be much, but it is still _something_. 

Nothing works. 

So, in 1980, in the deep of winter in Gravity Falls, Fiddleford buys and decorates a Christmas tree all on his own, and then, feeling uncertain and slightly uncomfortable, makes a clumsy recreation of the little menorah Ford had liked to light (when it was safe to) in the lab back in college— nine bunsen burners, one adjusted to sit higher than the others, to play the part of what Ford had once told him was like a ‘helper candle’. 

He doesn’t know the words Ford used to say, but he lights the bunsen burners anyway, hoping that maybe some part of who Ford is supposed to be will awaken, and come over to correct him, gently, and then they’ll sit together in the dim of the room, basking in the glow of the menorah, and it’ll be like December was last year. Like December had been at Backupsmore. 

No such luck. 

Instead, Fiddleford hears laughter— Bill’s laughter— as Ford inspects the Christmas tree. 

“Yeesh,” says Bill’s voice, “you humans and your rituals. Let me guess, it’s supposed to keep out evil spirits?” He waggles his eyebrows at Fiddleford, and then breaks into hysterical cackles. Fiddleford steels himself. 

“No,” he says, tersely, “It’s to remind us that even in the dead of winter, there’s still life. That there’s renewal ahead of us, and new days t’ come.” 

Bill snickers at that, and the look of derision across Ford’s features is almost too much for Fiddleford to bear. There’d been a time when he never would’ve been able to imagine a look of such cruel contempt on Ford’s face. He misses those days. He misses himself, the way he’d been, so naive and trusting and happy. 

“Yeah,” Bill snorts, “ _Sure._ ” He’s sauntering over toward the makeshift menorah, looking at it without any sort of recognition in his eyes. “And this thing?” he asks, leaning over the table it stands on. 

“That’s— that’s a menorah,” Fiddleford says, trying to keep his voice from wobbling, “It’s Ford’s.” 

“Oh ho ho! Old Fordy’s?” Bill asks, greatly amused, leaning in closer. He flicks Ford’s index finger lazily back and forth through one of the flames, slow enough that Fiddleford can see the pad of Ford’s finger turning red from the heat, a blister forming. 

“Yes,” he says, his jaw clenched. 

“What’s it for? Reminding you meatsacks of fire?” 

“I— It’s to commemorate a miracle,” Fiddleford says, wishing his knowledge of the old testament were stronger. 

“Yeah?” Bill hums. “Just looks like a buncha pretty lights to me, Specs.” Then he shrugs, straightens up, and sweeps the whole thing off the table, in a clatter of metal and a whoosh of flame, before stepping over the mess and leaving. 

_________________________ 

**Night Six: TWENTY-NINE (THIRTY-FOUR)**

Clinging, grasping horror overtakes Ford’s body as he watches the portal close, and Stan’s face, ashen and screaming, disappearing behind it. 

He’s sick with terror and with fury. 

If Stan had just done what he’d had asked him to do— if Stan could ever just fucking do what anyone asked him to do— they wouldn’t be in this mess. Either of them. 

On the Otherside, alone in the darkness and staring at the empty space where the Portal had been just minutes ago, Ford roars with rage. He throws things. He screams himself hoarse, and kicks at tree stumps, tearing at his hair. He wants to hit something, wants to destroy something, wants to finish his fight with Stanley, but now he never will, so instead he screams. It’s better than falling down in the grey grass of the Otherside and weeping like a child for everything he’s just lost. 

It’s nearly six hours before night on the Otherside ends. Once he’s cooled down, even just marginally, he starts moving through the darkness. He has to keep going, he knows that now, or he’ll fall apart. And there are things that are more immediately important than how much he’s looking forward to punching Stan in the face the next time he sees him. If nothing else, there’s the fact that he’s just advertised his position to every creature within earshot. 

Water. Food. Shelter. Fire. 

He’s been camping with Fiddleford before, he’s sure he’ll be able to manage that much. 

He spends most of those first hours just walking, as fast as he can in no particular direction, and quietly panicking as the reality of his situation sets in. Everything about this place is wrong— from the color of the starlight illuminating his path, to the musty, almost sweaty smell of the woods, to the inhuman sound of god-knows-what moving god-knows-where all around him. He tries to focus. 

Water. 

Food. 

Shelter. 

Fire. 

Stay alive. 

Stay alive. 

Stay alive. 

He finds water on day two— a quickly moving stream full of fish that look at him with clearly cognizant, deeply unsettling eyes. He can’t bring himself to even consider eating them, at first, but by day four he gives in. The look that first fish gives him as it suffocates on dry land haunts him for weeks. He kills the next one quicker. 

Shelter, he manages on day three: a shakily built little hovel at the base of a hill a few miles away from the original portal site. 

On day six, or maybe seven, he realizes that his shelter has been compromised. Tiny little things that look like naked mole rats, but whose teeth must have some kind of acidic property, had been gnawing at the supports, and the whole thing comes crashing down while he’s out collecting kindling. 

It’s endless running. Exhaustion, and fear, and never knowing what might be coming next. He wonders if he’ll ever rest easy again. If he’ll ever feel safe again. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t rest. He just keeps moving. 

(He comes back to the Portal Spot every few weeks. It’s stupid of him, but he can’t stop). 

Ford isn’t sure he likes knowing the origin of Gravity Falls’ weirdness as much as he’d thought he would. Eyes fly past in the darkness, and creatures unknowably huge lurk just beneath the surface of the water— he can feel them rumbling by on quiet days. On day 18, or maybe 22, Ford finds a tooth as tall as he is, sharp and jagged and bloody, discarded in the dirt. There are sounds he doesn’t recognize out there in the darkness, and things brushing past him when he least expects it. He takes notes when he can, but being surrounded… actually _surrounded_ … by anomalies makes it harder to appreciate them. Harder not to be terrified. This is Bill’s world, after all, and he’s sure that nothing in this place means him well. 

\- 

By Ford’s fifth year on the Otherside, he remembers very little of all this— the early days all blur together into one nightmarish haze. 

He’s living in iteration four of that first hovel— more of a cabin, now, built on a stone foundation and surrounded by glowing, thorny red plants that keep the mole rat creatures away. 

It isn’t comfortable. It isn’t safe. It isn’t easy. But it’s a hell of a lot better than it was. 

He’s made a few tenuous allies over the years: other dimension-hoppers like him, mostly. Acquaintances with similar goals, trade partners, petty criminals, revolutionaries, translators, mercenaries— even at their worst, they at least respect that Ford is just as capable of hurting them as they are of hurting him. Some of them he’d even go so far as to call… friends, sort of. One of them had helped him negotiate peace with the sentient fish. He's still paying reparations, of course, and he’d had to make a formal apology, but at least he isn’t being attacked on sight anymore. A truce is better in the long run, for all of them. After all, Ford has weapons, now, and strong walls built around him, and more ruthlessness than he’d ever realized. 

He’s also much better at running than he used to be. 

He keeps a tally on his wall, even though his count of the early days is pure estimation. It’s good to have some sense of time: there aren’t really seasons on the Otherside, and Ford worries that if he doesn’t keep track, he’ll forget that time is passing at all. Or that this isn’t just a dream; that he hasn’t been here since the dawn of time, that there was ever more to his life than running, and fighting, and _alone, alone, alone_. 

One of his associates sets him up with an inter-galactic mail-in University, and Ford works toward more PhDs, studying whatever catches his attention for long enough. Earning degrees feels right. It holds him down and makes him feel okay again, like the tally marks do— reminding him that the world is still real and so is he. Time passes more easily when he’s working toward something specific. 

He’d never been able to track the dates of Chanukah, even back when he’d had a reliable calendar, but he knows when it must be December back home. He thinks about the snow as he tramps through the heat of the Otherside’s murky forests and thick brambles. He remembers the warm glow of candles while he sits out on his porch at night, looking up at the eerie light of the Otherside’s stars. 

He doesn’t celebrate. 

When you’re living in a Boschian hellscape… well, it has certainly made an atheist out of Ford, anyway. And while that’s not really incompatible with Judaism, he doesn’t feel like there’s much point in getting sentimental. 

So he doesn’t bother to light candles, or say the blessings. But he does sit for a while, tucked away safe in the quiet of his little cabin, and think. It’s hard to remember Stanley without getting angry, but Ma… and Pop… and Shermy… 

He lets himself feel homesick. Just a little bit. Just for a little while. 

_________________________ 

**Night Seven: FORTY-FIVE**

Being Mr. Mystery is easy. 

It’s the rest of it: the behind-the-scenes stuff, the smaller-than-life drudgery, the day-to-day living… that’s what’s hard. 

During the summer, Stan knows what to do. He knows how to charm crowds and scam people with a twinkle in his eye. That’s nothing. That’s _fun_. It’s once the Shack is closed for the season that the rest of it all comes closing in on him: grocery shopping, chores, errands, bills, the mortgage, _taxes_ … not to mention the daily upkeep of a house and a car and a body that are all falling apart before his eyes— a never-ending tide of shit that needs fixing. Once the Shack closes, it’s all scheduled futility, all winter long. It’s all howling winds outside the empty house, and creaky floors, and roof repair, and cleaning out gutters, and shoveling snow, and pushing, pushing, pushing just to get through the days, before falling asleep in a bed that’s supposed to be Ford’s. Then, the next day, the same shit. 

In the winter, there’s no one to be but Stan. Nothing to do but keep going. 

Some days it’s too much to get out of bed in the morning, to face himself in the mirror. He avoids the basement for days at a time. It’s too cold down there. It makes his bones ache. Instead he trudges through physics books, alone in the dark of the Shack and feeling like a moron, reading the same paragraph over and over and over again before it sinks in. It’s like the ghost of ten-year-old Ford is looking over his shoulder, laughing at him as he struggles. Exhaustion piles up around him like drifts of snow. 

Soos comes by sometimes in the winter. Stan tells himself it’s because Soos has an Abuelita to support, and he needs to earn his paycheck, because it’s easier. That way, he can just direct Soos to rake leaves, or shovel snow, or work on fixing the heater that clangs loudly in the night, and not think about the way Soos looks at him like he feels sorry for him. 

Soos would probably be happy to sit with Stan in the Shack and watch soap operas or something equally inane, but Stan doesn’t have it in him to be much more than gruff and begrudging with the kid, and Soos doesn’t deserve that for hours at a time. So, he accepts Soos’ company for what it is— just the knowledge that someone is in the other room, working and whistling and warm— and goes about his usual day. 

One year, though, Soos comes by with a huge duffle bag over his shoulder. He smiles broadly at Stan, knee deep in snow, and says he brought all the best Christmas movies there are, for them to watch together, because he knows it’s hard for Stan to get out in the wintertime. Because of all the snow, and the Shack being so far off the beaten path, of course. Stan hesitates. 

“You sure?” he asks, his throat feeling croakier than usual. “I mean… not that I’m not… glad to see ya, kid, but you don’t have to stay. Just, uh, put some salt on the porch or something while you’re here to make it worth the drive.” 

“Nope,” Soos says, “Don’t be crazy, I’m totally here for the night.” He pulls out a sleeping bag from behind his back, and something in Stan hitches uncomfortably. Soos can’t stay here. It was bad enough when Stan thought it was just gonna be the length of _the Muppet’s Christmas Carol_ , now Soos is planning on moving in? 

“Soos,” he says, uneasily, “Listen, I… appreciate the effort. Or whatever. But shouldn’t you be home with your Abuelita?” 

Soos just shrugs. 

“I mean, she’ll probably miss me at dinner. But I’ll be back tomorrow, and my cousins aren’t coming to town for Christmas ‘til Nochebuena, so _en bee dee_ , Mr. Pines.” 

Stan sighs. 

“Soos, I’m Jewish. I don’t wanna watch your Christmas movies.” 

“Oh! No problem, Mr. Pines!” Soos says, beaming, “I knew that, actually, and I am totally prepared.” 

Stan raises an eyebrow. 

“Prepared how?” 

“Abuelita helped me make matzoh ball soup! That’s a Jewish thing, right? And I also brought a whole bunch of Chanukah specials!” He starts digging through his duffel bag, pulling out a mix of VHS tapes and DVDs. “We got _Rugrats_ , Shari Lewis, that one with the mouse, _Prince of Egypt_ , and… oh… uh, that might be sorta it, but there’s a Chanukah part in the _Pee Wee Christmas Special_!” 

Stan doesn’t know what to say. He stands aside and lets Soos in. 

_________________________ 

**Night Eight: FIFTY-EIGHT**

December wheels around too fast for them to even realize it. So much, and so little, has changed. The quiet of the Shack without Mabel and Dipper in it is too difficult to break, conversation too difficult to sustain. There’s so much they could be talking about, Stan thinks over breakfast, but they don’t say much. The silences are a little bit less miserable and fraught than they’d been in August, but still… it’s cold, and lonely. Stan supposes at least Ford hasn’t actually thrown him out yet. After everything that’d happened that summer, with both of them recovering from various injuries and newly-sustained traumas, it’d fallen to the side, and Ford hasn’t brought it up again. Stan hopes that means he’s changed his mind, but it seems more likely that Ford just forgot. He’s afraid of the answer he might get if he dared to ask. 

Mabel calls on the first night of Chanukah, all boisterous cheer. She sounds like she’s doing okay in eighth grade, which is a huge weight off Stan’s mind. She’s always been smarter than he ever was. 

Dipper says hello, too, once Mabel turns on the speaker phone, sounding happy in that sort of warm and golden way Dipper has, always quieter than Mabel, even in his good moods. They talk for a while about school, and life back in Piedmont, and what’s been going on in Gravity Falls since they left. Dipper asks if Ford and Stan are doing anything for Chanukah and Stan falters for a moment. 

“I… no, probably not,” Stan says. 

“WHAT?” Mabel shrieks. Stan’s hearing aid shorts out a little, and Dipper groans something Stan doesn’t quite catch about ‘breaking the sound barrier’. 

“We’re still workin’ things out.” Is all Stan says. “It’s complicated.” 

“ _GRUNKLE STAN_.” Mabel’s voice is, if anything, getting higher pitched, “THIS IS NOT OK. YOU SHOULD BE EATING _ALL_ THE COOKIES AND HAVING FIRES IN THE FIREPLACE AND LIGHTING THE MENORAH AND GETTING PRESENTS! IT’S THE _HOLIDAYS_ —!” 

“Sweetie,” Stan says, “it’s all right, ok? It’s enough for me to know Ford’s ok. That’s a plenty good gift. Besides, Chanukah’s not really a gift holiday.” 

“I—” Mabel stammers, “I mean, I GUESS.” 

“Listen, do you two knuckleheads wanna say hi to him? He’s in the basement, but I can go grab ‘im.” 

“Yeah!” Dipper says. 

“Yeah,” Mabel agrees, but she sounds a little grumpier about it than her twin does. 

_________________________ 

**Shamash: FIFTY-EIGHT (AGAIN)**

Ford doesn’t let Stan find out what he and the twins had talked about that night until a few weeks later. By then, Chanukah has long since passed, uncommemorated in the quiet house. 

Soos has visited about six times since the end of August, usually with a tupperware full of food his Abuelita cooked and what seems to be his typical boundless enthusiasm. Fiddleford has started visiting occasionally, too. He still seems to forget a lot, but it feels like talking to Ford helps, somehow. 

Things… things have been uncomfortable since the summer. Ford isn’t always very good at recognizing tension or understanding where it’s coming from; usually it just leaves him feeling a bit ill at ease and unsure why, but Stan is easier for him to read than most people. A book he knows well, a narrative that he understands to his bones, even though he’s relearning it, like a language he’d been fluent in as a child. He can see the way Stan tenses whenever Ford comes near, the way he jumps when Ford tries to broach the silences, like he’s not sure what to expect. Like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. He understands that. They’ve barely spoken properly since the kids’ 13th birthday party. Every time Ford tries, the words seem to die on his tongue, unspoken. What do you say to someone you thought you hated for 30 years, but who you owe your life, and who also kind of saved the world, but who is still such an absolute _asshat_? Ford’s all convoluted, full of gratitude and irritation, but Stan only seems to recognize the frustration, when it flares. It’s comforting, in a way, how Stan is still Stan. Still rude and crude, still an ass at times. But now whenever he makes an off-color joke, he looks at Ford like he’s wondering when Ford will finally respond. Like he’s trying to pick a fight, just to break the tension. And… well, maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing. They fought all the time when they were kids, didn’t they? But Ford isn’t sure he knows how to fight now, except in a way that would leave them both destroyed. The stakes he’s gotten used to are life-and-death, and a petty squabble about how long one of them monopolizes the bathroom isn’t something he knows how to have. 

Soos insists apologizing is the way to go. To set aside past hurts, dissolve the tension, and move together into the future. It sounds like this is advice he’s probably given Stan, too, but Ford isn’t sure he knows how to do that. He’d made amends on the Otherside when he’d needed to, but… apologies aren't something he and Stan had ever learned to do with each other. Usually, when they were kids and Stan mouthed off, or Ford got disciplined in school for showing up the teacher, they’d be spanked and sent to their room, and after a little while of quiet, Stan would teasingly punch Ford’s arm and they would tussle a little, until they were both giggling again. He’s not sure he can remember ever actually apologizing to Stan, or the opposite. 

That’s the other problem. He’s… he’s still confused about who owes an apology to whom, here. Stan got him sent to the Otherside, and stole his house and his name and his _life’s work_ for his own financial gain, something that still makes Ford a little sick to his stomach to think about. He’d doomed Ford to another dimension for 30 years. For the rest of his life, as far as Ford knew. And Stan had cost him his academic dreams as a teenager, something he knows he should be over by now, but he _isn’t_. Not really. It actually almost feels _worse_ now, with the Shack’s very existence delegitimizing all his research, and Stan himself having sullied Ford’s name all these years. 

But at the same time… Ford hadn’t said anything when Stan got kicked out, or any of the times their dad had turned a cruel eye on his brother over the years. He’d been a kid, to be fair, but so had Stan. And he’s not precisely clear on what exactly their late teens and 20s had _been_ for his twin, but he hasn’t gotten the sense it was much good, not from the offhanded things Stan’s mentioned, or from the last time they’d seen each other before… Well, _before_. And Ford had threatened to throw him out as soon as he’d laid eyes on him again, had discounted him, had let him sacrifice himself to protect Ford from Bill. And Stan had just taken all of it, like he deserved it. He’d _volunteered._

So… apologies. The scale is hard to balance. Hard to understand. And it keeps Ford from knowing what to do to make it right. But he _wants_ to make it right, maybe for the first time in his adult life. 

He thinks long and hard about what might work. What kind of olive branch he could offer, without it being… too one-sided. This is something they’ll need to build together, after all. Something they’ll need to _do_ together. 

It’s only when he’s on the phone with Dipper and Mabel on that first night of Chanukah, December 8th, that he starts to realize what he wants to do. As they’re chatting, the kids’ voices suddenly remind him so much of him and Stan at that age, back when they’d been matching Bar Mitzvah boys in matching suits and tallitot. Back when ending an argument had been as easy as suggesting a new game to play, and they’d still been called Lee and Ford, before Stan had started using the first half of their name, like he was daring Ford to deny the fact that they were the same, deep down. Like he knew Ford _would._

“Mabel,” Ford says, interrupting her as she tells him about the pogo stick she’d gotten for Chanukah that night. “Would you and Dipper be willing to help me with Stan’s Chanukah present, do you think?” 

Mabel, of course, says yes. 

(She kind of shrieks it.) 

They set the date for December 27th, a week and a half past the end of Chanukah, intentionally not tied to Christmas, but still within the kids’ break from school. The kids and their parents arrive in town on the day, and within the first couple of hours, Mabel and her dad have been dropped off at Soos’, where they make quick work of setting up balloons, streamers, little honeycomb dreidel decorations, and so many menorahs Ford thinks it’s probably going to be a fire hazard if Mabel plans to light them all, particularly with all the blue and silver crepe paper she’s strewn about the yard. By the time Ford heads out with Dipper and the kids’ mom to pick up the gift that the McGuckets have been helping him keep hidden, Mabel has set her dad to preparing a mountain of potatoes for latkes, and she seems to be busy making applesauce from scratch. All that’s really left is getting Stan to actually show up, but Ford has a plan for that. 

\- 

Soos comes by the Shack a few days after Christmas. Stan hasn’t really been paying very close attention to the actual calendar. Instead, he's mostly been watching cheesy movies and hiding in his room. He’s gotta start looking for a job soon, he knows, even as he’s dreading it. An apartment. A life of his own. Ford’s been busy with… something, lately. He hasn’t asked what, but he’s got a pretty clear sense that his luck is about to run out. 

“Mr. Pines!” Soos says, all good cheer and a lopsided smile. Melody or Melanie or whatever her name is is with him. She’s smiling, too, like there’s nothing she’d rather do than spend some time with an old geezer she doesn’t even know. “Melody had a _genius idea_ ,” Soos says, nudging her with his elbow. Stan sighs. 

“What.” 

“Abuelita and Melody and I made tamales for Christmas, and there's like… a hundred of them left. So… we were thinking…” 

“You should come over for some tamales!” 

“Soos, you coulda… called me?” 

“No way, Mr. Pines, and let you just turn me down?” 

Stan sighs again, but… well… what’s the point of staying here and watching Hallmark movies in the dark, anyway? 

By the time they pull up the house, Soos is practically vibrating with excitement. Stan is starting to get worried he’s about to be set up on a blind date with Soos’ Abuelita. Not that there’s anything wrong with her, it’s just that she’s gotta be at least fifteen years his senior, even if they’re probably both just in the box labeled ‘OLD’ in Soos’ head. 

But… when Soos grabs his hands and pulls him around to the backyard, what’s waiting for Stan isn’t Abuelita, or even just a platter of tamales. It’s… an explosion of glitter and confetti and at least 3 different HAPPY CHANUKAH banners with variant spellings, and balloons, and music blaring that indicates nothing so intensely as a Mabel Pines extravaganza. The song is something about… Chanukah in Santa Monica? 

“SURPRISE!” Mabel shouts from where she’s standing at a long buffet table. There’s an enormous vat of applesauce in front of her, and beside it a much more modest-sized boat of sour cream. There are tamales on the table, too, and a tureen of Soos’ Abuelita’s Matzoh ball soup. 

“HAPPY CHANUKAH!” Dipper yells, too. He’s coming out the backdoor, carrying a tray of dreidels and gelt in little net bags. 

“I— Kids?!” Stan stammers, “What are you doing here?” 

“IT’S THE HOLIDAYS!” Mabel declares again, gesticulating a bit too wildly with her applesauce ladle. A bit of it goes flying into her hair, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s got on a sweater with a huge silver menorah and what look like little felt flames that can be velcro’ed on for each night. 

The back door opens again, and out come Dipper and Mabel’s parents. They’ve each got a platter of latkes piled high, which they set beside the applesauce and sour cream. Wendy is behind them, home from college with a little box of what looks like store-bought donuts. 

“Mr. Pines!” She says, “It’s been forever! I read online that donuts were a Chanukah thing, is that okay?” 

“What— what is going on?” Stan asks, feeling bewildered and overwhelmed. Wendy shrugs. 

“A Chanukah party?” she suggests. 

“But— Chanukah is _over_ ,” Stan says, helplessly. 

“I hear it’s kind of flexible.” 

“No,” he starts. He stops. He doesn't know what he wants to say. “I mean. Sort of. It’s a lunar calendar.” 

“Actually,” comes Ford’s voice from behind him, at the gate to the backyard, “It’s a _lunisolar_ calendar.” Stan wheels around. 

“ _Ford_?!” 

“Happy Chanukah, Stan,” says Ford. His voice sounds… fond? 

“ _You_ did this?” Stan asks. He’s tipped over from bewildered to shocked, from overwhelmed to actually verklempt. 

“I… I know I have a lot to make up for.” Ford says, avoiding Stan’s eyes. “I would argue that you do, too, but… I wanted to… start? Together?” 

“I—” Stan’s voice falters. He can feel his face going red. “I think… that would be good.” 

“And… um. I got you a Chanukah gift.” 

“You… you didn’t have to—” 

“No, I know. I wanted to. And… I know it looks like a lot, but I promise, I didn’t spend too much on it.” 

Stan’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

“Ford, you gotta tell me what’s going on here, I feel like I’m about to lose my marbles.” Ford just smiles at that, small and soft and golden, like Dipper, and then he calls over his shoulder. 

“Fidds!” 

Which is when Fiddleford McGucket and his son Tate open the garage door at the end of Soos’ driveway to reveal… a boat…? Stan is sure his face isn’t showing the right emotion, he’s too overcome. Too… everything. 

“You… you got—” 

“The Stan O’ War,” Ford confirms. “She’s a bit of a heap, admittedly. She was being retired from Tate’s rental shop down by the lake, but I figured, maybe… we could fix her up, together.” 

And then, before he knows what he’s doing, Stan’s arms are around Ford, clutching probably too tightly, in their first hug in… what, 40 years? Or at least the first one Stan can remember. He thinks suddenly of a miracle. Of something that lasted when by all rights it should’ve run out, of a well that wasn’t depleted when it ought to have been. And Ford hugs back, his hands clapping on Stan’s back, as they stand in the middle of the party, in the middle of the yard, just swaying together slightly. Stan’s shoulders are shaking with tears, but Ford’s are, too. 

From somewhere just behind them, but also miles away, Stan hears Mabel yell, “LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!” and change the music to what sounds like a remix of the dreidel song. Stan laughs wetly into Ford’s shoulder. When he pulls back, Ford is still smiling. Stan smiles back, a bit shaky. 

“Well, come on, Sixer. You heard the lady.”

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: I am ethnically/culturally Jewish, but I wasn’t raised religious, so there's a lot about Jewishness and Judaism I do not know and am not an expert on. I tried to stick to stuff that was familiar to me and that I understand in this fic, but I’m sure there are still plenty of mistakes! My experience of Chanukah is largely that at some point, (usually around night 4) you’ll all forget and skip a night by accident. Some years, my parents would wait to celebrate Chanukah until me and my siblings were home for winter break, and while we did gifts, they were limited to about $5 per night. I’m absolutely certain this isn’t everyone’s experience of Chanukah, but it is mine.
> 
> A specific note on Night Four (Twenty-Seven): I know that Chanukah is not in the Torah, but Fiddleford doesn’t realize this!


End file.
